“How did you know me?” she asked in a
hollow voice.
“My lady, it was that night when there was an
alarm of fire. I went close up to you to take
Master Archibald from your arms; and, as sure as I
am now standing here, I believe that for the moment
my senses left me. I thought I saw a spectre—the
spectre of my dead lady. I forgot the present;
I forgot that all were standing round me; that you,
Madame Vine, were alive before me. Your face
was not disguised then; the moonlight shone full upon
it, and I knew it, after the first few moments of
terror, to be, in dreadful truth, the living
one of Lady Isabel. My lady, come away!
We shall have Mr. Carlyle here.”
Poor thing! She sank upon her knees, in her humility,
her dread. “Oh, Joyce, have pity upon me!
don’t betray me! I will leave the house;
indeed I will. Don’t betray me while I am
in it!”
“My lady, you have nothing to fear from me.
I have kept the secret buried within my breast since
then. Last April! It has nearly been too
much for me. By night and by day I have had no
peace, dreading what might come out. Think of
the awful confusion, the consequences, should it come
to the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. Indeed,
my lady, you never ought to have come.”
“Joyce,” she said, hollowly, lifting her
haggard face, “I could not keep away from my
unhappy children. Is it no punishment to me,
think you, the being here?” she added, vehemently.
“To see him—my husband—the
husband of another! It is killing me.”
“Oh, my lady, come away! I hear him; I
hear him!”
Partly coaxing, partly dragging her, Joyce took her
into her own room, and left her there. Mr. Carlyle
was at that moment at the door of the sick one.
Joyce sprang forward. Her face, in her emotion
and fear, was of one livid whiteness, and she shook
as William had shaken, poor child, in the afternoon.
It was only too apparent in the well-lighted corridor.
“Joyce,” he exclaimed, in amazement, “what
ails you?”
“Sir! master!” she panted; “be prepared.
Master William—Master William——”
“Joyce! Not dead!”
“Alas, yes, sir!”
Mr. Carlyle strode into the chamber. But ere
he was well across it, he turned back to slip the
bolt of the door. On the pillow lay the white,
thin face, at rest now.
“My boy! my boy! Oh, my God!” he
murmured, in bowed reverence, “mayest Thou have
received this child to rest in Jesus, even as, I trust,
Thou hadst already received his unhappy mother!”
LORD VANE DATING FORWARD.
To the burial of William Carlyle came Lord Mount Severn
and his son. Wilson had been right in her surmises
as to the resting-place. The Carlyle vault was
opened for him, and an order went forth to the sculptor
for an inscription to be added to their marble tablet
in the church: “William Vane Carlyle, eldest
son of Archibald Carlyle, of East Lynne.”
Amongst those who attended the funeral as mourners
went one more notable in the eyes of the gazers than
the rest—Richard Hare the younger.
